


Red, Red Wine

by surrenderdammit



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Developing Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Jealousy, Light-Hearted, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: Illya turns red, an endearing sight to see, and Napoleon can’t help but laugh. His friend scowls. “You visit here often, Cowboy? He is not stranger to you.”Illya follows Napoleon to a club one night. They end up having a discussion where they might have to read between the lines.





	Red, Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this lying around unfinished for a while so I figured I'd post it. 
> 
> That it exists in the first place is entirely EclecticRegard's fault. She keeps dragging me into ships and I fall hook-line-sinker.
> 
> (My mind drew a blank on the title. Sorry)
> 
> Enjoy!

oOo

 

Contrary to popular belief, there is an underlying reason other than mere greed behind Napoleon’s perceived decadence. His morals may be questionable, his self-indulgence far from selfless, and his appreciation and subsequent enjoyment of the finer things a “filthy capitalist failing". However, there is an inevitable change which occur as you survive a war, as soldier or civilian, that can lead to a number of things which in a new era is either accepted or scorned.

Personally, Napoleon does not view the person he became as a complete product of the war, though it would be easy to blame it entirely. No, he has always been opportunistic, a necessity in the circumstances of his upbringing. That stealing art could turn such a profit hadn’t been a hard sell for him, though it certainly helped after years of living in frankly hideous conditions. Well, it was more surviving than actual living, but regardless, it had woken a desire to have what he had been denied, to take something for himself, to live under his own orders and leave all the horrors behind.

This, he thinks, is the main reason behind the wine and the food, the jewels and clothes and art. It is there for him to enjoy, so he enjoys it, because he knows what going without it feels like and, frankly, he’d much rather feel good and have fun. If that is sin, then he is a sinner, and he does not regret it.

It’s this philosophy of life, he thinks, that made Illya Kuryakin dislike him so in the beginning. Well, that and the fact that they were on opposite sides, but being an “unapologetic hedonist" certainly could not have helped. A year into their partnership at U.N.C.L.E and the dislike has morphed into mutual respect and a friendship buoyed by banter and insults and loyalty.

This does not mean, however, that Napoleon’s appreciation for the good things in life has lessened, nor has Peril’s dislike for “capitalist failings" mellowed into complete acceptance. Really, though, Napoleon  _ is  _ trying. Trying to get him to just  _ enjoy  _ things, if only to have the man loosen up and perhaps stop being so infuriatingly judgemental. At first it had been amusing, but by now Napoleon could really do without the  _ looks _ if he so much as  _ glances  _ at one of his many vices. Honestly.

“You do not ever turn it off,” Illya grumbles, face sour and eyes hard as they stare down Francois, the young man who had brought them their drinks and is attempting to flee to the other side of the dimly lit club. This vice is, perhaps, much more likely to gain almost universal scorn if indulged, but Napoleon had chosen this place for a reason.

“Well, if you have it you have it, my friend, and believe me; I have got it,” Napoleon replies with a wink, thinking it quite unfortunate that Illya chose  _ this  _ night to invite himself along when Napoleon had announced his intentions after they had reported to Waverly and gotten their five days off. Normally, Napoleon would not mind, as he very much enjoys his friend’s company even off the clock. A tall, broad and intense Soviet man looking ready to snap your neck was not exactly bringing honey to the party, however. Well, not  _ this  _ kind of party. Those kind of clubs were a very different scene from this.

With a sigh, he mourns the could-have-been night of a lithe, rosy-cheeked youth and decides to enjoy the diamond in the rough next to him instead. Not for the first time, he wishes his friend shared this particular vice out of all of them, but it is not a thing to push someone on. Not like food or drink. This is a thing that could very well get you killed, after all.

“He was boy,” Illya states with a disapproving frown. By now, Napoleon knows it’s not about gender, a fact he is grateful for.

“At twenty-two, one is hardly a child, Peril,” Napoleon disagrees, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of whiskey. Wistfully, he continues. “And don’t let a fresh face fool you. Francois could do things to you that would make a whore blush.”

Illya turns red, an endearing sight to see, and Napoleon can’t help but laugh. His friend scowls. “You visit here often, Cowboy? He is not stranger to you.”

Napoleon shrugs. “It's not like with women. One has to be careful, of when and where and who. I usually don’t have the time, and so this is more convenient. I’ve known him since we joined U.N.C.L.E. He is discrete, and has no expectations.”

Peril has this look about him, a focused sort of interest which speaks of things he has kept silent on but wishes to discuss. This particular subject has only been acknowledged once between them, and then only to establish whether it would be a problem or not. So far, it hasn’t been. Napoleon fiercely hopes it will continue to be so.

“If you enjoy women too, why risk this? Does not seem...easy,” Illya wonders, genuine and charmingly baffled.

Napoleon ponders the question, and what might lie behind it. “Well, this attraction...it’s another thing I cannot turn off. Sometimes I like a red wine, others a white. Why should I give up either? It’s all wine.”

Illya scoffs at the admittedly ridiculous allegory, but seems to accept it. “And it is worth it, then?”

“Pleasure always is, my dear,” Napoleon drawls as he takes another sip of his drink, smiling coyly. His friend blushes, and Napoleon takes a moment to bask in it.

“So it is same with women? You enjoy but you do not love,” Illya continues on, brave as ever. It’s admirable, though it's taken an uncomfortable turn.

“I can love, Peril, I just choose not to,” he replies after a moment of awkward silence. “Attachments are messy, especially in our kind of work.”

Illya frowns. “But you are attached. To Gaby, to me. You are so loud about us being friends, it is annoying sometimes.”

“That’s different,” Napoleon dismisses. “If I were to love, then I would do like you and Miss Teller did, and choose someone who is already in this life.”

“Is that American way? You choose. It does not simply happen?” Crossing his arms, Illya looks skeptical. “Sounds, what you say? Bogus.”

Grinning, Napoleon leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Perhaps, but it’s irrelevant either way. The point is, that it is not for me.”

Silence falls between them as they study each other. Napoleon is the first to look away, for once the one uncomfortable, too wary of what his friend might see.

“It is lonely,” Illya remarks after a while, somber, and Napoleon looks over in surprise. 

“I’m sorry,” is his reply, quiet and sincere. The affair between Miss Teller and his Soviet friend had not lasted long, though their friendship has survived with remarkable ease. Illya, as before, accepts the sentiment but does not linger on it.

“Gaby thinks you are lonely too,” Illya remarks instead, watching him intently. Napoleon narrows his eyes, wondering. There is a reason they are having this conversation. Perhaps that reason is why Illya is here in the first place. It makes something curious stir in his stomach.

“Is she going to play matchmaker and plan my wedding?” Napoleon wonders with bemused skepticism, brows raised. Illya snorts, but leans closer, until he mirrors Napoleon’s stance, elbows on table.

“She thinks I’m lonely too,” Illya continues and really, this is getting ridiculous. They’re grown men.

“Come home with me,” Napoleon suggests. “And we can speak frankly without anyone overhearing. Then you can tell me if you’re still feeling lonely.”

Illya grins. “And you will choose?”

His heart might skip a beat, and he laughs. “Is that the Soviet way? It simply happens, just like that.”

“Perhaps,” Illya shrugs. “You are friend. It is not difficult. Come, let’s go. I have more to say, but not here.”

They both stand, and Napoleon can’t help but feel slightly dazed. His friend might or might not have just professed his love to him and that is...unexpected.

This is nowhere near what Napoleon had thought the night would bring. Francois watches them leave from a safe distance, looking slightly dejected. Napoleon smiles at him, gives a flirty wave, and does not startle at the hand grasping his arm and pulling him out the door with sharp efficiency. Ah.

When he looks over, Peril looks...well. _Murderous yet determined,_ comes to mind.

“No enjoying boy,” he snaps and Napoleon barely resist the urge to salute him with an impertinent ‘yes, sir!’. His arm might be snapped in two.

**Author's Note:**

> The "you do not ever turn it off" line and Solo's reply are quotes from the original show.


End file.
